It started like all great tragedies, with a desperate need for Wi-Fi. I wandered into this saloon—half dive, half mistake—because my phone had about two bars of signal and the ambition of a potato. I figured I’d grab a seat, mooch some Wi-Fi, maybe send a few emails, and escape before someone tried to sell me life insurance or Bitcoin.
I sit down. Casual-like. Nod to the bartender, who looks like he lost a staring contest with a buzzsaw.
“Hey,” I say, “what’s the Wi-Fi password?”
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. He just wipes the bar with the enthusiasm of a depressed sloth and says, “You need to buy a drink first.”
Okay. Classic bait-and-sip. I play along.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll have a Coke.”
He squints at me. “Pepsi okay?”
It’s never okay, but I’m not here to start a war.
“Sure,” I nod. “How much?”
“Three bucks.”
I fork over the cash, and he slides over a warm-ish Pepsi in a glass that smells faintly of beer. I pretend to enjoy it, like someone pretending their online date looks like their profile picture.
“So,” I say again, “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”
He leans in like he’s about to share a state secret.
“You need to buy a drink first,” he says. “All lowercase. No spaces.”
I stare at him. Blink once. Maybe twice.
“You mean… that’s the password? Youneedtobuyadrinkfirst?”
He grins. The kind of grin that says he’s been waiting all day to do this to someone.
I type it in. And, of course—it connects instantly.
I sip my warm Pepsi and stare into the fluorescent lights, questioning all my life decisions, a reminder that the universe enjoys a good joke.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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